


Deserving

by TheNot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, Guilt, M/M, Praise Kink, Smut, angst goes down over time, aziraphale tries his darnedest to have open communication, crowley tries his damnedest to not, deceiving one's partner, eventual soft sex, feelings of worthlessness, poorly negotiated rough sex, sex as self-harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-09-28 04:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20420261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNot/pseuds/TheNot
Summary: Crowley has gone very far out of his way to convince Aziraphale he wants to be manhandled and demeaned and told he's worthless in an effort to stoke his own negative feelings about himself. He can only keep it up for so long. Aziraphale loves him too much not to notice.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley used to be cool - used to be smart. He used to only get himself into situations that he knew how to get himself out of. He was known to be the sort of demon that would never do anything he wasn't 110% on board with, and would tell you his displeasure to your face.

Not so, when it came to Aziraphale.

_Want to go out for an ice cream?_ Yes, even though the cold hurt his forked tongue and made his sheathed scales shiver.

_Could we go visit that nice young couple we met at the airbase?_ Sounds lovely, despite being tired and anxious after seeing a Hastur-shaped chameleon in the garden.

_Would you like it if I held you down and called you a cum-slut, you sly demon?_ Sign him the fuck up! Just forget about all those thoughts about how he doesn't deserve physical touch or any affection at all from the literal-best person he's ever met.

He would do anything for Aziraphale.

Which brought him to the present (his grip on which was faltering severely today, despite his best efforts). The aforementioned holding-down had Crowley's face deep in the angel's mattress, cutting off all the oxygen that he didn't need. But, he liked oxygen. It was comforting.

Aziraphale was deep inside him, going at a slow pace that brought him only barely back and forth, rocking a spot inside Crowley that would have brought him over the edge an hour ago had he not been distracted with maintaining his human form's arousal.

He focused hard on producing just the right amount of sweat for his angel's hand to slide slightly from the bottom of his ribs to his hip and back with each stroke. Too little, and he might appear cold, and too much, Aziraphale may suspect his exertion. His lover's other hand was buried in his short locks, pressing him further into the down comforter and muffling his moans.

The moans were manufactured as well. Occasionally, he threw in a "_Punish me_!" or a "_Is that all you got?_", which always spurred the angel on despite the lines' origins from cheap homemade pornography. Once, he accidentally let an "_I deserve this_," slip but a quick clench of his ass distracted the angel from considering the source.

Most unfortunately, Crowley had to put a distinct effort into maintaining his…well, effort. He preferred positions like these where his flagging erection could be easily concealed from view until he could will his body into orgasm, spilling onto the sheets before the angel could get a hand around. Chalk it up to the scene making him come untouched. Again, usually worked.

Today, however, was particularly bad. Aziraphale, ever one to please, had advanced his language from authoritarian to downright oppressive over the course of the past few months, though not without excessive caution. Every time they started to get hot and heavy, the angel would confirm two things. First, that Crowley remembered their safe word that the demon privately swore to never use, discomfort be damned ("Adam", since both children and reminders of the Apocawasn't was strictly off both their kink lists), and second, whether he was still okay for Aziraphale to take charge. Crowley could never deny him, but his body was trying awfully hard to anyway.

"What if those demons could see you now?" Aziraphale asked, voice huffing and unsteady with uncoordinated movement. "You know, in hell they had an courtroom- _hah_\- more like an auditorium. Imagine what they'd say if they saw you-" He dug his sharp, yet well-manicured, nails in tight to Crowley's thigh and gave a violent heave that felt raw against Crowley's under-lubricated insides (all the demon's idea, too). The sensation was only about 60% painful. Maybe 70%. Aziraphale continued, "Being fucked by an angel of the Lord. Maybe I'd let them pass you around, watch what they could do."

"_No_," Crowley whimpered out pathetically, half checked out completely to maintain control of his body, and half putting himself in the scenario. Everyone in hell already hated him. Sure, Lucifer was once something of a confidant before the fall and Beelzebub had begrudgingly admitted an ounce of admiration at Crowley's deeds, but over time, his commitment to a lack of commitment and subsequent rewards for it led to basically all demons wanting to see him suffer. And if they could have a chance to effect that change themselves…

The scene was further degrading by the image that Aziraphale would be there, clucking his tongue and shaking his head at the failed demon, failed angel, failed…creature before him. Shame clouded Crowley's eyes as he considered whether he'd rather the angel just turn tail and leave him to be taken instead.

"Or I could bring you up to heaven." His voice was closer, but much quieter. Crowley remembered to feel again and found that the angel's soft body was weighing him down, and his lips mouthed roughly at his ear. How did he miss that? He never used to miss that. "All those angels who knew you, who loved you, who trusted you- that you betrayed for a life of sin. I'm sure they'd have ideas of what to do with you. Especially after you corrupted one of their own, a _Principality_, no less…"

Aziraphale didn't used to talk like this - so he was kind-of right, this corruption was Crowley's fault. Every time they sat down to have a discussion of boundaries and open communication, the demon would assert that he was up for anything, everything, wherever, whenever. The angel would counter, "_Surely not-_" and the demon would laugh and say it was just in his nature to enjoy all types of debauchery. Then, the angel would timidly suggest something, "_What if we used…_" or "_What if I said…_" and Crowley would purr an enthusiastic, "_fuck yes_," slithering into his lap and initiating a good snog.

And so, his sweet, darling angel who would sigh things like, "_I never want to let you go,_" and "_I love you_," when they first had sex in Aziraphale's reading chair was now biting words of hatred into his neck and promising, "but who are we kidding, my dear, neither side would want to have you. You don't deserve their attention, their rage. You don't deserve to be under me, taking my cock like it could save you. You don't deserve any of this."

"A-ah…" The groan originated without effort, this time. Yes, Crowley thought. I don't. Look what I'm asking you to do, what I've made you do. I'm the lowest, I'm the worst. "I don't," he agreed, and finally found the strength to push his hips back to meet Aziraphale's.

"You're _worthless_," the angel hissed, overly dramatic but that analysis flew too far over Crowley's head to acknowledge it.

Obediently, he repeated, "I'm worthless."

"You're scum."

"I-I'm scum."

"You're less than noth- Crowley? Are you alright?"

"I'm _less than nothing_!" he went on, disregarding the angel's worried tone. Crowley's dick caught _just right_ on a seam in the cloth below him just as Aziraphale struck home deep in his gut, and to his surprise, he actually came - for real. For the first time since he started this game of chicken with Aziraphale's graciousness during sex.

When awareness decided to return to him, there was still grunting and noises of heavy, gulping breaths, and Crowley perked his snake-like senses up to catch whether the angel was close or not. However, the body behind him was stock-still, not using its lungs at all, _waiting_ and listening, too. A clench from inside Crowley's chest alerted him to a dangerous situation occurring on his own face - wet sobs escaping his lips, gurgling, overflowing tears, and snot that he would have never put in his nostrils and honestly never experienced before.

"Crowley!" A distant voice called, and suddenly Crowley felt very empty. But, maybe he was already feeling empty. "Crowley, darling, please, look at me?"

After thoroughly ignoring the voice, a hand yanked his head out of the duvet with much more force than Aziraphale had ever mustered in one of their scenes. The angel's face was still flushed with pupils like dishware from his prior efforts, but these features were contorted and localized into a look of fear creeping into anger. Crowley suddenly realized his mistake.

He remembered the first time he neglected to take the Antichrist's name in vain. Aziraphale spanked him with more force than entirely necessary, and it _hurt_. It was previously agreed upon (Crowley had no clue what his opinion on the act would be, but he'd agree anyway, as mentioned previously), but it still came as a surprise and left a bad mark, so after they were done, the angel tried _insisting_ on talking about it.

Crowley hated talking about it.

After that moment, he endeavored to be very keen on showering, eating, sleeping, watering the plants, going for a drive - _anything_ after sex resolved itself to avoid his lover's curious questions about what was happening. If Aziraphale showed concern about something that happened, he would only stick around long enough to say, "I _was fine with it - are _you_ okay_?" and make sure he got an answer in the affirmative. And the angel, unlike the demon, would actually refuse what he didn't like during the act itself, which Crowley was happy to cater to. (It wasn't a double standard if only one person was deserving of the courtesy…right?)

But crying - no, having a_ full-on panic attack_ the moment he climaxed - would definitely put any excuses of needing to polish the Bentley or make sure there was enough milk in the fridge away. Possibly forever.

"My God, Crowley, say something!" Aziraphale's hands were holding his face now, and had guided him into a seated position to face him at some point. Crowley was losing it, he needed to be here and fix this, now.

"I-I'm _fine_," he tried, voice raising out of its proper octave against his will. His arms followed suit, shivering now and trying to wrestle their way out of the nonchalant crossed-pose he tried to assume. "Just, intense, is all."

"You've never reacted like this, my dear, are you sure?" Oh, hell, now Aziraphale looked like he might cry too (probably in a much more touching, beautiful way, as he did everything). "I was saying… awful things to you. Please know I didn't mean them?"

No. Crowley could not let his angel believe this was his fault. He needed to put on his usual smirk, force his leaking fluids back in his face, and swear up and down that what happened was the sexiest thing he had ever experienced.

Instead, he said, "Well, I do deserve it."

Aziraphale had opened his mouth to say… something, but now it froze that way like a fish expecting a meal and finding itself waiting too long.

"B-by that I mean-" Damn shivering, forcing his words out all wrong. "You don't need to worry about me. I'll give you anything you want to take from me." He meant it to come out playful, purring in a way that usually had his angel smile rosily or at least roll his eyes, but instead it turned Aziraphale's bass-like expression into a snarl.

"I'm not trying to take anything from you! We- We're supposed to be making love!" He was shouting, much too loudly for their lack of distance. Almost afraid of what they might do left on the demon's face, he shoved his hands into the blankets, gripping them harshly. "I told you that first night, Crowley, this is a_ two-way street_! I love you so much, and I-" Aziraphale cut off and Crowley wanted to throw himself into a sea of holy water for making his voice sound that way. "I need you to tell me that you're okay with what we're doing. That I'm not hurting you."

"Of course you're hurting me! That's the POINT!" Crowley waved his arms at the outburst, then settled against the headboard, hoping his burning cheeks would help his tears evaporate faster. Absentmindedly, he noticed a chafing, dry, emptiness between his legs and realized the angel never came. A quick glance down told him that Aziraphale's arousal was gone, so far gone that he had stowed his effort completely, leaving only smooth skin behind. So, he meant business.

"Not the kind of hurting that could make you cry, Crowley! Make you think… what, you _deserve_ to be treated this way, you said? Do you actually believe that?"

He should say no. That, _no, of course not, I love myself and I love you and having you yell at me and tell me I'm awful is actually just securing how much I _don't_ believe that and _don't_ feel guilty about you and heaven and all the evils of hell and humanity I've contributed to._

"How could I not?" he said instead, weak with the effort of staying still under the angel's piercing gaze. And, now that he opened one can of worms, a veritable shelf of the cans started rolling off. "You're so good to me, too good to me, and just having you with me, touching me, _fucking_ me is so beyond anything I've ever imagined, or deserved. I'd give you anything and everything and it would never be enough, angel. If you asked to flay me, slice my wings off and toss them to the buzzards, cut the serpent out of me with your flaming sword, I'd say _fuck, yes, please_ and grab a lighter for you. I'd say yes to anything. Anything to make you happy. It's the only good I'm worth anything for at this point."

At some point, Crowley had shut his eyes- likely due to the lack of sunglasses shielding him from the conversation. He fluttered them open and instantly regretted it.

Aziraphale looked like he might vomit. He was leaning away, like Crowley just admitted he had a horrible disease and wanted to rub uglies with him again. The reasonable part of the demon's mind hadn't caught up to what went wrong, how honest he had really been, still lost in a haze of self-deprecating orgasmic bliss and directing significant energy back to his dick. He leaned back too, sickened with himself. Of course he would get hard from admitting what a horrible disappointment he was. From hurting someone he loved.

"_I._" The angel spoke without moving his mouth at first, forgetting how humans used their voice boxes to produce noise instead of just conjuring it. Utterly spooky, and Crowley, for once, hated the feeling. Then, now voiced and strained, "I need to leave. Right now."

"Angel, wait, we can talk about this, I can explain it better-" He reached for Aziraphale's arm, but found the angel's whole body to now be across the room, fully dressed and compulsively laying his lapels flat. "C'mon, angel, please don't be like this, just come over here and-"

This time, he spoke straight to Crowley's soul, voice filling his bones with a bubbling righteous fury that he could only imagine was packaged for layaway until only the Heavenly Host's deployment. "_I cannot be near you right now. I am too angry. I refuse to hurt you…_" Something was unspoken - an "_again_" or a "_like you hurt me_."

"Aziraphale…" He tried, he really tried to apologize. To say words that would keep the angel close, to just stay in the room. A sick part of him suggested he remind his lover that leaving him in this vulnerable state would surely make things worse, make him hate himself even more. But just thinking of this comeback made him want to curl up into a tight, python ball and be crushed under the angel's heel.

Aziraphale turned his eyes towards him, sadness melting from every feature, then vanished elsewhere.

To spite himself, Crowley sat unmoving and tried crying again. Nothing came out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I've never actually written smut before and this was only like 10% smut anyway and 90% angst. I plan to write ~2 more chapters and I promise The Boys eventually make up and have a more open and honest discussion and Crowley learns to love himself etc etc etc ANYWAY hope you enjoyed my projection i mean fanfiction have a good day. If there's a tag you think should be added PLEASE let me know bc I'm not sure how to tag anything let alone smut so
> 
> (also I know I'm bad at replying to comments but I do very much appreciate them! i also actually made a tumblr again since i'm so goddamn obsessed with these dudes so you can also @ me there (thirstmageddon). i like sharing pain)


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley had rows with Aziraphale before. He knew the right things to say and do and bring to smooth everything over and convince the angel that everything was okay. He could even apologize if necessary.

This was the mantra he repeated to himself as he sat on their bed until the light crested through the curtains and then disappeared once more. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t moving, putting his clothes back on, or even willing away the mess he made on himself and the sheets. It probably wasn’t normal, being so catatonic yet so awake, but he was still able to think rationally about all this oddness, so that must be a good sign, right? 

After what must have been a full day and still absolute silence from every corner of the angel’s bookshop-slash-flat-slash-love-den, Crowley realized the angel wasn’t gone for a quick bite to stew over their argument, which indicated a certain level of seriousness. With some effort, he peeled himself out of the bed, wincing at the pain in his arse from recklessly denying preparation (magical or otherwise) the night before.

What he needed was an honest-to-someone shower, and then he could begin to face his angel again. He hadn’t been allowed the chance to explain himself before, which was honestly his own fault for not considering this topic might ever be discovered. For a demon, he was disgustingly transparent.

The shower only existed because Crowley wanted it to back in the early days of he and Aziraphale’s sex life when they did things like look at each other and sigh pleasantly. He entered the glass box and wrenched the knob to the hottest setting (also his design) and tried to forget the last time the two found themselves under the spray, grasping at each other like their lives depended on it.

For a long time, their intimacy was incredibly well-balanced and tangled into a mutual passion that deeply understood what the other being was going for. The arrangement was exclusively in a Crowley-inside-Aziraphale orientation, as a result of the demon not being experienced with any other method from his forays into human sexuality. Aziraphale lacked any forays at all and so was happy to accept Crowley between his soft parted thighs.

The water of the shower burned. Singed Crowley’s approximation of human skin. He imagined this might have been what Ligur experienced when Crowley murdered him. The sights and smells of melting flesh danced through the demon's mind.

When he drove the Bentley through the flames of the M25, he had the strength of will to keep himself protected from the excruciating heat, having been in desperate need of meeting Aziraphale and also incidentally of saving the world. Pain would only be a distraction to that goal.

Now he let the burning pain engulf him. Secretly, he wanted it to take him as far back as his descent into the tar pits - a fire so traumatic that it seared the memories of heaven right out of him, neglecting only the idea of what he was and what crimes he committed against Her. Always hanging about asking questions and being curious instead of doing his angelic duties. Getting along with the wrong crowd out of an obsessive desire to _please_. And here that desire was again, ruining him.

So fire is what he turned to in these moments where he deserved punishment and no one (read: Aziraphale) was there to give it to him. He knew some humans used burns in a different medium to the same effect- branding themselves with lit cigarettes. Out of what? Despair? What did humans have to feel so guilty about? It’s not like the original sin was their fault anyway.

(He felt bad for those humans. Fire shouldn’t be their cross to bear.)

Dimly aware of its necessity for the ritual, he washed himself. There was a soap smelling of pears that Aziraphale liked rubbing into Crowley's back and shoulders once upon a time. He used it now only to wash his body, careful not to imitate a caress as he scrubbed the filth off of him raw. Only when he felt good and red did he exit the stall.

Outfit and hair back in place and perfectly untidy, Crowley made extra certain that he appeared normal. Still undeniably cool and normal. No need scaring Aziraphale any further. And besides, everything was fine. He just needed to explain himself.

\----

Finding Aziraphale had become a bit of a problem, though. After slipping out to fetch his angel some aged wine and cheese, he slipped back in to find the bookshop still empty, even after waiting another full day and draining the bottle (he started on it fully intending to muscle it back into existence when Aziraphale returned, but he never did and Crowley enjoyed the loss of control at the moment).

Cheese put in the fridge for future apologies, Crowley toured their favorite spots - St. James, the patisserie down the block, a picnic spot one of their new humans tipped them off to. All full of ducks or customers or bumblebees, but completely empty.

A worrying thought occurred to Crowley - what if the angel was seeking _him_ out to apologize? The idea quickly ate through his insides until he materialized at his own flat, ready to argue thoroughly that everything was his own fault, until that location was found empty too.

"Ssshit," he hissed, shoving his hands under his sunglasses to rub fiercely at his eyes. He was so tired and the ache of the sex and the shower were long gone. A familiar instinct from a past argument whispered that he should return to bed - his own bed, this time - and sleep until the next century. It was mighty tempting.

He looked at the bed, which was overly large for the most opulent of orgies and graced with the most exquisite dark sheets crumbled into lived-in hills and valleys that betrayed the existence of a couple. Crowley wasn't certain the last time they slept here. Ironically, of the two beds Aziraphale and he found themselves in, the one in the demon's home was used strictly for sleeping. Used to be equal opportunity, the two bedrooms, for both sleeping _and_ fucking.

It was here, the last time anything had been consummated in that bed, that Crowley began his saunter into personal madness. (Not for lack of trying - Aziraphale would try initiating things too many times to count after reading a steamy novel in bed or to distract from a film they were watching in the living room. But sex in Crowley's apartment just reminded the demon too much of the saccharine taste he tried to avoid.)

The memory of that last time assaulted Crowley's senses as he absently traced the silk sheets and felt them slide through his fingers, alive. The experience on his skin was like a kiss now, just as it was when Aziraphale laid him down and took off his sunglasses with two hands, carefully setting them aside. Crowley's pulse was racing, forgetting its metronome, as his lover knelt _over_ him for the first time, running his soft fingers over his shoulders, wrists, ribs, calves - everywhere, without care for what areas were erogenous. He spent decades tracing Crowley's eyelids and centuries in the crook of his elbow. It was so…much.

Again, Crowley's fault. For the first time, he had a request and it led to this display. Something he had never done before.

Those careful, wise hands smoothed the worry out of his brow and parted his shaking thighs, then took him apart inch by inch. Crowley had a flashbulb image of the two of them (somehow outside his own body). The demon's cock, weeping and standing to greet this actual angel with three fingers buried in his arse. Aziraphale was whispering something that the demon refused to hear, but that act of whispering seemed to bring the angel endless joy regardless. Crowley only remembered his breath tickling his neck.

Then, his lover entered him and - it was different than anything he had expected. His history fucking humans led him to believe that the inside of these canals were lined with hyper-sensitive nerves that called out from the slightest inch of friction. Instead, there was just a fullness and the feeling of a stretch around his rim. He didn't understand the appeal at all until he blinked open and saw his angel's face, searching his and it felt like a _blessing_.

Also for the first time, he was tempted to tell Aziraphale to stop, but not due to unpleasantness - he wouldn’t learn that saying "yes" was an easy way to send himself deeper into despair until much later. The abundance of love set all the fires of Crowley's mind out, dousing them in liquid adoration and sending his mind into a protective limbo.

He was so disgusted with himself for accepting such an unwarranted gift that he vowed never to let it happen again. Not the stretching sensation and the fullness, mind you. He could still weaponize those. Just, the. Well.

Love.

Crowley dropped his hold on the sheet like it threatened him. He had washed the damn things dozens of times, trying to force the beautiful stain of love out, but it lingered nonetheless. Hence, the end of sex in Crowley's flat.

Three days and the angel was still missing, not at any of the four places they cycled through. Crowley cursed himself for not listening more closely to the angel's tales of meeting the local butcher or visiting a newly-minted church on the corner. Which corner was it? Would he even have gone there?

Would the angel have even gone somewhere he liked? Or was he treading the same dark memories as Crowley, punishing himself for something placed foolishly on his own shoulders. Hopefully he was starting to realize that Crowley wasn't worth this trouble and could move on. Realize he didn't even like Crowley.

That nagging thought inspired one last idea of where to look.

\----

The bandstand was eerie and always had been. A secluded area no one ever wandered into (certainly no bands), and definitely wasn't prepared for guests with not a bench (or even a flattish rock) in sight. It felt more like a cage at the center of an amphitheater, confining but still uncomfortably exposed.

Fitting, then, that their second biggest fight might find them here again.

Aziraphale was, for his part, anxiously fiddling with his sleeve, then his hands, then, more specifically, his ring. His normal expression (half-concerned, half-confused) graced his features, so Crowley hoped that meant good things for the conversation ahead. Somehow, he knew that it didn't.

"Hey, angel," he drawled, standing just where he did almost a year ago, even replicating the posture with a jutted hip. But now, he knew to start with the olive branch. "Missed you." He chose to breeze over their mutual assumption that the other would be meeting here. Didn't seem to matter at the moment.

Aziraphale smiled softly and cast his eyes down with some effort. He was preparing to say something difficult. Hopefully not heartbreakingly so.

"I missed you too, dear. I'm sorry I lost my temper with you and left when you were…in a state."

"Wasn't really a state. Barely even a county. A country village, more like."

"I know you try to be funny when you're nervous, but please do me a favor and repress that urge, just this once." His eyes were still kind, but his tone deadly serious.

"Sure! Anything. Urges, repressed. Like the good ol' days," he eked the last bit out without thinking but the angel didn't catch it, only continued.

"I wanted to tell you I understood why you didn't tell me what you were truly feeling about our intimacy. That you were unhappy with our arrangement."

"I promise I really wasn't-"

"Because I have been unhappy too."

Crowley's growing smirk at how easily this had been going so far froze halfway to his eyes. "You- I'm sorry?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to say, but I've been terribly unhappy and I haven't been honest with you about it either."

Crowley realized that he wasn't shocked at all by this fact (given his subconscious' knack for having the lines on repeat), only that Aziraphale was saying it so cavalierly and with this strangely affected tone. It sounded like he was gearing up for one of his monologues, which the demon typically loved and hated in equal measure. He wasn't too sure about this one, though.

"Unhappy how? Unhappy with _what_?" he dared voice.

"Sex, darling," Aziraphale stated bluntly, raising his eyebrows with a smile. The expression mimicked Gabriel's as he encouraged a disguised Crowley to his apparent demise - something all wrong on the Archangel's face and definitely no better on the Principality's. "I find it absolutely horrid."

"I-I'm sorry," Crowley repeated, feeling righteous anger flare in his chest and letting it escape with a whine. "We've been having sex for months and you're only telling me that you hate it _now_?"

"I suppose I could have said something sooner, but I didn't want to hurt your pride or let this come between us. Please don't misunderstand me - I'm still very fond of you and enjoy our company together." Well, that was some amount of good news to hoard. "I would have gone on pretending had you not given me this opportunity to confess… as it were."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me! You always- you-" Crowley's knees buckled and he swirled around, looking for a seat he knew this ghostly construction couldn't provide him. He compromised and leaned heavily on one of the supporting pillars at the circumference, bending to face Aziraphale's sensible shoes. "You always said yes? Always came up with these spectacular ideas?"

It was true - Aziraphale was always surprising him either with his genuine enthusiasm for the act or with some addition he had read about while decidedly not visiting the adult literature shop next door. That was how they ended up trying handcuffs, ropes, lingerie… all items that Crowley welcomed both for pleasure and distraction.

"Well, the explanation for that is simple, my dear. I lied."

"You-" A laugh bubbled out of Crowley's chest and he had to throw an arm over the pillar to keep himself somewhat vertical. "You, Aziraphale, Guardian of the Earth and all its inhabitants, Principality of the Eastern Gate, who apologizes to walls for bumping into them, _lied_ about enjoying sex? And I believed it?!"

"You say that like I've never lied before! I had to do it all the time when I was taking up your duties for the arrangement. And, if you forget, I acted perfectly evil when deceiving those Nazis!"

"You're not exactly James Bond."

"James who?"

Crowley waved the question away, brain hurting from spinning this conversation around too many times. "Okay, so you lied. I guess, I admit, I lied too. About. Being happy with everything."

"Oh really."

"Yes, and I _forgive_ you, angel," Crowley said, a bit desperately. "But we can still go along as we were, without sex. I don't have a problem with that."

"And what about other things?"

"What…sorts of other things?"

"What if I lied about other things? Said I liked things that I really didn't?"

"That's fine too! Just tell me what they are, I can bear it, angel." To prove his point, he released himself from the pillar and crossed the invisible barrier separating them. Knowing his hands were cold and clammy and probably felt like lead in the angel's, he grabbed them anyway, hoping to prove his point. "Please, tell me."

"What if they're things _you_ like?"

"I love you!" A phrase he used to have so much trouble even whispering, now shouted for the entire surrounding block to hear. If there were ducks, they would be chattering. "I can live without anything, unless that thing is _you_, angel."

"See, that's the problem," Aziraphale grinned in that Gabriel-voodoo-doll way again, ready to state something absolutely insane as a matter of fact. "I'm not going to tell you. I don't want you to have to give anything up, you see, and well- _my_ desires could certainly never compare to yours, in my mind. I wanted to come clean about the sex, since you had already revealed part of your psyche to me, but I will keep mum about this going forward. I don't mean to mess anything up with something trifling like my feelings."

Crowley's sweaty hands evaporated quickly over the beat that followed. Something was happening here. He could feel it in his bones but his mind hadn't caught up with it yet. He tried pulling his hands out of Aziraphale's but they wouldn't move. He felt the fingernails that he once begged to be dug into his skin bury themselves now into his wrists, forcing him to be present in this moment.

Was this his fault, too? Had he been pressuring the angel into acts that someone of his kind would never have even considered with an equal, let alone the most base of creatures? With a snake that got its jollies crawling at humanity's feet. What else did the angel think he owed him? His kindness? His love? Was all of it a lie?

"Aziraphale," he swore, struggling to hold onto this reality. "You can't just. Not tell me things like that?"

"Why not." His stare was icy, and his smile, utterly frostbitten.

"Because. We're a team? We're in a _relationship_, you can't just do those things. There needs to be some trust."

"Trust?"

"Yes, trust, you silly angel… I love you, and you love me, and relationships can begin on that but-"

"But they can only thrive under trust. Is that what you were going to say?"

Something occurred to Crowley then. There was a time, once, when he had left Aziraphale's shop to grab something insignificant from the store at the angel's request. Something they could have easily conjured up - milk, eggs, something similar. Crowley sighed and huffed but eventually left putting on that he would _certainly_ go to the shop and _purchase_ some goods. Not having any problem with lying himself (and meaning it mostly as a joke), he centralized his aura so the angel couldn't sense him, miracled up the item, and materialized into the bedroom to surprise Aziraphale and maybe get a cute pout out of him.

Funnily enough, he found Aziraphale sitting timidly on the bed, hand grasping his cock fiercely, and looking the most genuinely shocked and embarrassed the demon had ever seen him. "_I…wanted to see if it felt as good alone, without…any judgment!_" he had sputtered, and Crowley had dutifully guaranteed he was not judging, and even though he was chuckling from his luck at stumbling onto this, he would very much like to watch Aziraphale keep going.

There was a chance Aziraphale knew he would come back and staged the entire encounter. But, they _had_ gotten so lost in the proceeding events that they forgot to put the cream in the refrigerator (ah yes, it was _cream_). And that was something his angel would never allow unless he was otherwise occupied with something more scintillating. Cream would never be sacrificed to service anyone's feelings in their household.

"Angel, what's going-"

"We have to _trust_ each other, Crowley," Aziraphale said, under his breath and over-seasoning his words in desperation. "You wouldn't want to do something that I actually didn't like because I concealed that information, correct? Do you understand what I'm saying?" The cold eyes were wet now, accusing Crowley of making them that way.

"What is all this? Why did you say all those things-" The angel forced the last few words out of him by holding him tightly, bending his serpentine body into a curvy mess in his divinely strong arms.

"How does it feel, Crowley? To find out you've been hurting someone you love and they were _letting _you." A whimper slid out from his lips and into Crowley's cheek as he kissed him tenderly, forcefully, weightlessly all at once. "And then to realize-" a sob cut him off, and he swallowed hard enough that Crowley could feel the weight of it on his shoulder. "That you might _keep_ hurting them? Because they want it- they _want you to._"

"You do like sex. You were acting."

"YES I was bloody _acting,_ you dolt!" Aziraphale met his eyes and they blazed with heavenly light. His whole countenance radiated with it. Crowley squinted. "Lord knows I don't have much skill in the practice but obviously you're very eager to believe I despise you, despite my best efforts…"

"No," and now Crowley finally wrenched his arms free to embrace the angel back. "No, this isn't your fault, it's…"

"What, yours?!"

"_Of course it is!_" he wanted to scream. But instead, he heard it come out defeated, as a murmur the breeze happened to pick up.

Suddenly, the angel's grip was gone and Crowley was the one clinging to him.

"My dear…how could I have not seen any of this?"

"I'm a much better actor, angel."

"Relationships can't be built on acting, Crowley. Good acting, especially."

Instinctively, Crowley pulled him closer, forcing the angel to pivot so he wasn't talking into the demon's neck. He was too numb to feel it anyway. "You want to break up."

"No, that is not what I'm saying at all-"

"-You don't want to see me anymore, and you can't stand the sight of me-"

"-I just need to know I can trust you when you say-"

"-I fucked up so badly, I know I did, I'm so sorry, but you can't-"

"We need to be _better_, Crowley!" Aziraphale pushed him away with a full-bodied shove that would have toppled the demon, had he not been balanced by the angel's sheer gravity. Aziraphale was teary and furious and flushed with a variety of emotions and may murder him. For once, Crowley was not graced with an inner voice welcoming the victimhood. "You lied to me. You made me wonder whether this was all a lie and I just don't know how to get past that. But I love you too much to let you go. So we must _fix_ this. Together."

"I love you too," Crowley echoed. "Too, too much." He sounded broken, but Aziraphale sounded equally so.

"I am so sorry, my dear." Crowley tilted his head, voice too slow to voice his inquiry. "I am sorry you are hurting. And sorry that I cannot let you continue to hurt yourself."

"You can't?"

Aziraphale gripped his forearm, and the burning shame that Crowley reveled in ceased for a moment, calmed by a new meditative energy that must have taken some effort from the angel's aura. One of those uncommon distractions that didn't need to hurt.

"You shouldn't have to take this on," he offered weakly.

"I don't have to. But I'm choosing to anyway." Aziraphale squeezed his arm once more, establishing himself, and carefully separated them. "Let's go home. You look like you need some rest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale probably didn't need to do all that but 1. he's still wildly pissed and 2. he's extra as fuck
> 
> changed number of chapters from 3 to 4. hopefully next one will be more uplifting? i'm randomly in kind of a dark place right now which made writing this a breeze and also kept my mind from going places it shouldn't. I'm really glad people seem to like this so thank you to everyone reading and kudosing and commenting and whatever else you can do on this website


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley wasn't sure when he last sat at his desk for actual _thinking_.

He clicked absently at the pen always held in his jacket but rarely had reason to be used. In front of him was a pad of paper that would have yellowed by now from disuse if not for the scared vow (note spelling) all items in his flat had to abide by. His plants only got the worst of it.

(In the back of his mind, he acknowledged two pieces of information he liked to pretend were lost to time. First, that the pen was last used when signing over for the baby Antichrist on the worst day of his life. And second, that the top piece of paper was torn just so and a faint imprint of "HOLY WATER" in hasty scrawl was barely visible.)

In a different era, Crowley came up with his most creative temptations at this desk. The pen and paper nailed his errant thoughts to the proverbial cross and the faux grandeur of the throne gave them some importance. Older notebooks already stowed away were filled with half-doodles, half-landscapes of the exact angles required for the sigil of Odegra. He did his homework. His time in Hell's service had been filled with fear and regret, but it did make him feel rather capable.

The only other being who made him feel that way was in his modern kitchen, too fit for homemaking zealots. Last he heard, the angel was making a cake with pomegranates. Crowley's favorite, if he had to pick.

After ripping and crumpling the damned first sheet of paper, Crowley clicked his pen a final time and etched "DOTING" at the top (he was only capable of writing in all-capitals- a keepsake from his days graffitiing Rome). Then added a number "1" to the left of it for good measure. He wasn't sure what he was listing yet, but he figured he'd get there eventually. All his plans did.

Since their argument at the bandstand, Crowley had thoroughly prepared himself for unbearable tension to throw their relationship back into the stone age (possibly literally). His angel had made it clear he didn't trust him, _couldn't_ trust him, unless something was fixed. Yet they spent the past week or so as usual - getting lunch and taking the leftover crusts to St. James, going for drives, going for _walks_, going for walks _while holding hands like bloody newlyweds_-

It was mind-boggling. Here Crowley was, waking up every morning and wanting to- well, not _die_ per se, but certainly discorporate in the most painful of manners- and Aziraphale would just press his lips to his temples and say disgusting things like, "_I love you._" Every time he had the urge to groan and fight and tell the angel what an idiot he was, he swallowed it for the sake of this _niceness_ they had fallen into and said it right back. And he meant it.

Crowley flipped the pen between his fingers and pulled his knee up for a chinrest (the chair was twenty times more uncomfortable than it looked, but it facilitated the demon's ache for discomfort while reminding him that sitting like a normal person would rot his limbs if he tried it for too long). He peered over his sunglasses through the opening between kitchen and office that Aziraphale miracled into his wall, not wanting to be out of Crowley's sight for too long.

The angel's blonde head bobbed to a tune he was humming that Crowley couldn't quite catch. A abundantly pink apron was tied at the back of his neck (fluffing out some perfect curls at the base of his skull) and the curve of his spine (framing his arse in a noticable heart-shape). Crowley's skills at staring returned to him as he watched, motionless, and was rewarded with those hips swaying slightly to the subvocal music.

A crack notified Crowley that the pen had found its way into his mouth, between his teeth. He glanced down at it - cursing himself for looking away - and it was only cracked. When he bounced his gaze back up, he found that the angel had stooped out of view, probably putting the prepared batter in the oven. The overwhelming, sweet scent of the cake had started to reach tendrils into Crowley's office, and its cloying kindness made him gag. The sights, the sounds, the smells Aziraphale's existence forced on him… he was going slightly mad with lust.

He turned back to the pad of paper and wrote "2 - DRIVING ME MAD". Apparently, this list was shaping up to be something about Aziraphale.

They hadn't had sex since that day Crowley "lost his cool" (as he liked to call it), but honestly, he wasn't even sure what sex could _look_ like for them anymore.

If he was strictly honest with himself, Crowley had fucked up his sex drive something fierce, like a contortionist who tried being a pretzel for too long and got stuck as a carb forever. He could watch his angel bend over to throw crumbs to the ducks or lick the icing off his thumb for centuries (and he had) and never get tired of it. But he was finding his anatomy less responsive than it used to be to these visual delights.

Instead, it was times where he sat in a café, frowning at Aziraphale's stories of heaven - a place he was decidedly no longer welcome. Or when an old temptation of Crowley's that got out of hand led to some woman in a nearby dressing room sighed in disappointment (was it selfies this time? pants without pockets? shirts too low or too sheer for sensible wear?). It happened when he cut someone off in traffic too curtly or forgot to miracle a tip jar full after helping himself to treats for him and the angel.

A pang of self-loathing, pebbles thrown onto the insurmountable pile that was crushing the air out of his lungs and the thoughts out of his brain. Hence the paper.

It wasn't so much the moments_ themselves _that made his dick twitch reflexively but the idea that he was awful and would continue to be awful and that someone might come and remind him of his awfulness and put him out of his misery altogether. Someone needed to tell his cock that the angel wasn't playing that game anymore, though.

It was about to happen again as the angel came proudly out of the kitchen with a huff, fluffing his hands on his belly to rid them of flour and pomegranate juice. Instantly, Crowley's arms reached of their own accord to tempt the angel into an embrace, which he entertained.

"That should be about forty-five minutes," he announced, letting Crowley curl around his abdomen and bury his face in his waist. "Suppose I could just will it ready, but I do _adore_ your kitchen and making things the _right_ way. I think I'll actually do the dishes while I wait…" He looked off, words still in the other room and Crowley moved his hands a bit lower - more on his thigh where he could hold him steady.

"You don't need forty-five minutes to do _dishes_, angel," he drawled, instigating a dance without a partner in hopes that he'd convince one to join. "I can think of much better ways to use the time-" Crowley punctuated the statement by nosing his head into the angel's forgotten messy fingers. His tongue dipped into the tart juice staining his fingertips and he swallowed a gasp by engulfing one between his lips, sucking like it was the fruit itself. Crowley had practically invented the concept of likening fingers to other appendages, and he was especially good at knowing just where to graze his teeth, curl his tongue-

"What are you doing?" Aziraphale hissed, swiping his hand, then his whole body, away. About three feet away. He clutched his fingers to his chest like they had been burned.

"I-" The pathetic way his tongue now rested on his bottom lip, yearning, made Crowley feel hot. His sexual compass was spinning wildly, but this level of humiliation and shame was due firmly north. Crowley was thankful for the leg still pressed against his chest, hiding his instant arousal and doubling as a punishing vice on his crotch. He inched his foot back a bit further to increase the pressure. "-Sorry," he ground out. "You know how I feel about pomegranates. Can't get enough of the stuff."

Aziraphale gave him a look that reminded him of their promise to _trust_ and _be honest_ and _communicate_ and he felt that cruel masochism bubble in his throat. The sickest part of him wondered if it'd feel even better to scare the angel off completely - how fitting that would be for all the shit Crowley had pulled in his 6000-year life. Then the angel could move on to someone he actually deserved.

"Crowley," Aziraphale prompted, halting the inner monologue and bringing Crowley's eyes back into focus. He was closer, again, looking apologetic. And waiting. When Crowley didn’t have further comment, he filled in the blank himself, looking as squeamish as Crowley was with his cock's salute. "I'm so-"

"-You know what, angel," Crowley shifted again in the throne, this time turning away to drape both legs over the arm of the chair and pulling the notepad in to hide it and his erection. "If doing the dishes makes you happy, then knock yourself out." He couldn't see Aziraphale's dejected slump, but he did hear feet retreating to the kitchen. Another swelling fit in his jeans and he tried to picture Aziraphale smiling to push the arousal away.

Crowley let out a sigh. He was too fucked up.

The smile stuck with him, floating around until it found itself on the notepad as a doodle below #2. It had too many teeth, was too wide for the imaginary face he hadn't drawn with it. It was as threatening as any cursed motorway or cell phone tower maps he had drawn before. The smile whispered to him, joining the chorus of judgement already found in his mind.

For good measure, Crowley wrote "3- THAT SMILE" in an arch above the drawing. Ironically, the curved line of text looked like an uncanny frown.

Of course, it was the smile Aziraphale gave him last week at the bandstand. When he stood there and told Crowley how he _hurt_ his angel and would do it again. That Aziraphale _wanted him to_.

All lies, Crowley understood this. And of course, it was necessary. How else would Crowley have truly understood what a joke their sex life (and love) had become? That he was trying to hurt himself, and that was hurting Aziraphale?

(There probably wasn't any other way, was there? _Someone_ knows Crowley is dense for having the airy skull of a snake. He wouldn't even have listened if Aziraphale walked out on him. Maybe just thank him. Yes. There wasn't any other way.)

Crowley couldn't stop the unbidden thoughts, so he bid new ones to replace them. Aziraphale's reaction to the pomegranate juice had been excessive. Extreme, even. What if the angel really didn't enjoy sex?

Or maybe he just couldn't enjoy sex anymore, knowing what Crowley would turn it into.

Crowley repressed the urge to barge into the kitchen and beg for forgiveness. Or beg for the now-ruminating obsession of Aziraphale leaving and finding someone better. Or beg for answers about what their relationship even was anymore. He managed to only allow himself to peek back through that window, where the angel should have been happily sudsy up to his elbows and putting away tins of sugar Crowley didn't own.

The kitchen was empty.

So was Crowley's lap.

"What's this?" Aziraphale asked, impossibly close as he squinted at the few words Crowley had acknowledged in writing. At least he wasn't commenting on the state of his trousers. Crowley almost sputtered a lame "_nothing,"_ but he was _trying_, damn it. He would not lie again. Not…right now at least.

"It's a list."

"A list of…?"

"Not sure." The purest truth he had told all day.

"How can you make a list if you're not sure what you're listing?" When Crowley didn't answer, he leapt to the next conclusion himself. "It's about me."

"Yea, probably." Although Crowley still hadn't turned to face the angel, he could tell that his shrewd gaze had gone from the paper to the back of his head. Just in case, he folded his hands primly (Aziraphale-style) over his hips.

"Well, it certainly _seems_ like a positive one. Smiles and doting are both good. And I do believe you enjoy a touch of madness from time to time?" The words curled, bounced, and Crowley realized he was laughing. Normally the sound was reminiscent of church bells and windchimes and made him melt into serpent-shaped goo. Crowley tensed and realized he felt…pissed?

"Actually, I…don't think it is."

The light giggle soured and quieted. Crowley finally turned his head to gauge Aziraphale's reaction and the stricken look set a fire inside him. But he refused to think with his tainted dick right now.

"Like, why the hell are you baking me a cake? We both know you're the poster cherub for sloth on all accounts besides book acquisition. You _eat_. You don't _bake_."

"I can't very well make you enjoy a book!" he snapped. "Lord knows I've tried."

"You've been cooing over me for days, angel, but when I want to touch you- _really_ touch you- you run away! What is that supposed to tell me?!"

"I- I just didn't want to go too fast for you, darling." The irony of the statement was lost on them both. "I figured I ought to give you space to figure out what you want-"

"-what I want, what I _still_ want, is your dick in my ass and your fists in my hair and the carpet rubbing my skin off with each thrust. I want you to spit on me, step on me, yell at me, _choke_ me. If you could kill me, _Christ_, I'd beg for it. You telling me how much you don't want to do it doesn't stop me from wanting it."

Aziraphale looked like he might be sick. "You shouldn't want these things, Crowley…"

Now Crowley was laughing, and by the time he replied, he still hadn't stopped. "You think I don't know that! You think I want us to be in this weird purgatory forever, baking cakes and PG-touching until the heat death of the universe?!" Unable to stop himself (and he must be feeling less under the weather now, because these dramatics only surfaced when he really found himself _caring_), Crowley leapt from the chair and propped one leg up on the seat, thrusting his hips forward. "Do you see this?"

"Are you… Is that?"

"Isss _what_, angel?" He regretted the dearth of S's in the question.

"Are you getting _excited _right now?" Aziraphale's face had sling-shot back to amazed. It reminded Crowley of his expression when they watched Adam and Eve consummate their own ineffable partnership for the first time. Equal parts curious and alarmed, with a dash of disgust.

"Do you see my point? Pun _very_ unintended. I'm a complete mess, Aziraphale. I want to think about sex _normally_ again but with you not wanting to even get _near_ me, and that awful smile trapped in my head-"

"What smile?" Aziraphale held up the notebook. "'That' smile?"

"Your Gabriel smile."

"_Excuse_ me? My _what_?!"

"When you were play-acting at the bandstand, that stupid smile you had on. Looked just like that bastard boss' of yours. The one I spat fire at."

"I keep forgetting you did that."

"I did that."

"Well." Crowley was still burning holes in the angel's collar and had an exceptional presence still from his open posture and conspicuous interest. Aziraphale shrank. "Do you think I did the wrong thing? At the bandstand?"

"I-" He had refused to entertain the thought before, but now Aziraphale posed the idea as an actual option. "It was shocking. And- scary. And it…made me sad." If he were less aroused or under less scrutiny, he might have mustered some better vocabulary. But his dictionary of feelings was pretty limited as it was. "Thinking I had hurt you, and that you were lying to me. I know you were making a point because I_ had_ been hurting you, but…you hurt me."

"Oh, Crowley…" Then, without any regard for where Crowley's limbs and other appendages were at the moment, he overtook the demon in a crushing embrace that felt as soft as the slowly-rising cake smelled from the other room. Aziraphale made no move to let go, just stood and held him there. It was all the contact they had lacked for a week, and all the intimacy they had lacked for months. "I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve that."

"I… didn't."

Aziraphale pulled back to cradle his face, urging his head to collapse into his arms. He seemed absolutely lost gazing at Crowley like this. "I'm so glad to hear you say that."

"Was this another one of your ploys to get me to admit I didn't deserve to be hurt?"

"I'm flattered you think I'm that clever." The angel's fingers brushed through his hair, simultaneously smoothing it out and muffing it up. The end result was very soothing. "-and sorry that I made you think manipulating you is my new modus operandi."

"I don't, really," Crowley chuckled, leaning back onto his desk to get a better look at the angel's face. Some good-natured humor was starting to bleed back into his features, and the demon assumed the same was mirrored on himself. His erection had certainly subsided. Aziraphale glanced down and noticed, but Crowley was too exhausted to feel any type of way about that.

"It's odd that you have this reaction to pain. It's not like typical erotic masochism I've seen in the past." Crowley's eyebrows attempted to exit his corporeal form. "Oh, calm down, I've had a lot of friends in my day and friends do chat."

"This isn't masochism. This is…" A thirst for debasement? A death wish? An urge to remember Hell itself? He abandoned the predicate in favor of a new one. "..not how I want us to be."

"Me neither, dear." Aziraphale stepped closer, entering his space with consent now, and reached carefully behind him to grab the cracked pen forgotten on the mahogany. "How do you want us to be then? What do you want to excite you?" He clicked the pen and made to write on the paper, turning a new page.

"Don't make this a _thing_ angel-"

"When have you ever known me to _not_ make something a 'thing'? Just humor me."

"I honestly don't have a fucking clue."

"What about things you like now, but less hurtful? We can outsmart this Pavlovian reaction of yours to self-hatred."

"Pavlovian reaction?"

"You know, Pavlov? Wasn't he one of yours? Studying physiology despite having a priest for a father?"

"_Yes_, I know Pavlov. Ring a bell when you feed the dog and soon the dog starts drooling any time the bell goes, I got it. Pretty sure you covered that one for me. Tempted him _splendidly_."

"Oh. Thank you." Aziraphale flushed, giving Crowley an idea. He tapped a fingernail on the book.

"Write 'making angel blush' on there. No better aphrodisiac if Hell distilled one itself."

The redness blooming and further proving his point, Aziraphale ducked his head to write in down. "I suppose I can get behind that one. But-" Now his ears were positively burning, but this more out of embarrassed assertion. "-I must tell you I no longer feel comfortable doing anything that would cause you pain - kinky or otherwise."

Crowley grinned at the lilting "_kinky"_, which helped soften the blow. "I get it. No more spankings for me."

"At least not anytime soon," Aziraphale amended, lips curling upwards too. "What about something with the same danger, just without the force?"

"What would that even mea-" A hand clasped around his throat, startling the words out of him. Aziraphale had a firm grip, holding him in place, but was very carefully _not_ squeezing--not letting his hand close a smaller circumference than Crowley's neck allowed.

"Is this pleasurable?"

Out of habit, Crowley searched Aziraphale's eyes for an opinion to reflect, but found nothing. "Does it do anything for you?"

"Answer my question." And then, with a calculation Crowley couldn't follow, he added, "Or else I'll stop."

"No!" an answer forced its way out without Crowley's conscious approval. "I- I do like it. It feels…secure."

"Good to know." As promised, the angel did not let go, only leaned to Crowley's left to write something in a flowing script so beautiful it was illegible from Crowley's angle. When he stood back upright, Crowley thought he might have been coming in for a kiss, but instead used his leverage to bring his lips to the demon's jugular - now racing in an effort that must have appeared with Crowley's reawakening cock.

"As I mentioned," Aziraphale started, murmuring the words into his skin in a wet glide. His breath was cool enough that it chilled every inch he came across. Crowley gave a full-bodied shiver. "I won't be using teeth until I know we can be _honest_ with each other." The word '_honest_' came out as a growl and Crowley reclined further onto the desk, but found himself quickly lifted and _placed_ on the desk without much fanfare. The angel fit between his thighs beautifully without even touching him.

Aziraphale began to demonstrate this alternative to teeth, sucking too softly on his pulse- just below the threshold of pain. Crowley gasped, surprised at how similar the sensation felt to the biting, bruising blessings the angel usually wrought on his most sensitive areas. This was a torture all its own, slow and chilling and mind-numbing in its flood of sensation. Between the lips, the hand, and the pulsing shadows of love marks left behind, all the figmented blood Crowley contained centered above his shoulders and below his waist.

"_God_," he choked on the word, which muscled out of him before he could think better. "Aziraphale," he corrected. "_Please_."

The angel dutifully ignored him, humming the tune that so eluded Crowley earlier into his Adam's apple as his ministrations crossed the midline of his throat. It was some symphony they had gone to together once. Bach? No, too old, it was at least a century-

A laving tongue stroked the edge of his jaw, shocking it open with a moan. Aziraphale responded with an unrestrained smirk that normally rested on the demon's face but fit his _much_ better.

"You also liked it when I called you those dreadful names, didn't you? I'll need to find new things to call you." He paused to engulf Crowley's earlobe with an obscene, wet suck. His teeth only kissed the skin, nowhere near applying force. Crowley's mind was too distracted to consider what Aziraphale might say next. Which was:

"My darling baby boy. An absolute blossom. Blooming just for me because I-" he smoothed his tongue just along the edge of Crowley's lower lip as it trembled, permanently open to gasp every time the angel moved (still no friction between his legs). "-I know just how to treat you. Not with pain or indignity but with complete respect and adoration because you, my love, my_ husband_, are the best thing that has ever happened to me and you deserve _the world_."

Crowley was absolutely blazing. His neck from the tempered assault, his body from the clothes that were tight before but now were _suffocating_, and his face from the words that ordered all his instincts to _run_. At some point, Aziraphale had leaned back to search his face, smiling in only the way he could - eyes glowing and lips full (likely from the effort, but)- and Crowley was able to forget his instincts. Then he was moving back in, but this time to Crowley's left. Too far to his left.

"What…" Crowley breathed, not sure if the word actually came out whole or not. He saw Aziraphale madly scribbling in the notebook and sobered up a bit more quickly. "What are you doing?"

"Taking notes before I forget!" He flashed his eyes up once as a warning. "I hope you know you're immensely distracting."

"_I_ am?!"

Aziraphale stepped away, bless him, pen in hand and pushed up to his rosy, full mouth. He slid his jaw back and forth like it ached.

"If I'm not mistaken, you enjoyed some of that," the angel announced, pointedly not looking at Crowley's crotch which extended desperately for him. "I think we learned a lot here that we could use."

Crowley was about to stumble forward, clutch his lover by the arms and shake him to death shouting, "_why stop here? We could use this lot right now!"_ when a bell rang from the kitchen.

"OH yes, let's not forget," Aziraphale chimed in reply, already salivating (a dog himself). "The cake! We can carry on with this later."

Crowley did grab him, but only with a slight pinch to the end of his sweater, giving him room to escape if he really needed to. "Angel."

"Yes, my dear?" And his smile, for a moment, made Crowley feel like he _might_ deserve the world. He could see himself reflected in the angel's features, and it made for a pretty picture.

"I'll let you know when I'm…ready." He offered a smile of his own, the only strong move he could make when Aziraphale left his limbs this depleted. "To 'make love'. I guess." If he could have shrugged, he would have.

"I'm glad to know it, darling." And he beamed. Crowley still wanted to throttle him. But there was cake to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha soooo. sorry for taking a while on this one. I wrote and re-wrote this thing a whole lot and really debated what I should be saying and how I should say it. But also this is just a fanfic so I don't know why I cared so much. But....I do care! So here is the result.
> 
> Thank you everyone who's been reading and commenting and giving me your thoughts because it's honestly pretty thought-provoking to me. Hopefully I'll have the last chapter out...e v e n t u a l l y?


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